The Illusion of Warmth
by nachalainne
Summary: Sherlock and Lestrade are on stake-out, but the sound of Sherlock's teeth chattering is threatening to give them away. Lestrade, concerned for their safety  and Sherlock's health , fetches him a blanket.


Sherlock had insisted they keep absolutely still, but the longer they waited, the more it seemed he wasn't up to the task. His teeth clicked rapidly together and his breath rose in hazy mist over his head. Greg did his best to ignore it, knowing that any interruption on his part — even one to prevent the younger detective from freezing to death — would be met with a glare and a swift jab to the kidneys.

Anyone else — especially anyone who knew him — might have left Sherlock to his own devices, and waited for the frostbite to settle in. Unfortunately for Greg and his kidneys, his compassion wouldn't let the matter drop.

Shaking his head, he reached for the lever that would open the boot. Almost immediately, Sherlock's fingers dug into his leg. "Stop," he hissed, eyes bright with fury that the detective inspector might ruin his plan after so many hours on stake-out.

"Let go," Greg replied calmly. "I'm getting out."

Sherlock's grip tightened. "You're giving up?"

"No, I'm getting you a blanket before your chattering teeth let the bastards know we're here."

Sherlock looked indignant, but let him go. He would never admit to weakness, but even he couldn't deny that the cold was having an effect on his ability to process information. It wasn't a personal flaw; it was a human fault. (Although he casually ignored the fact that Greg, despite wearing a much rattier coat than he was, seemed perfectly fine.)

The DI slipped out of the car quietly, making his way around to the boot. A bright orange blanket lay buried beneath two duffel bags, a football and a pillow. Scanning his surroundings, he quickly tugged the blanket free, balled it up tightly and tucked it into his coat. The last thing he needed was Sherlock whining about how the colour was going to attract attention. As softly as he could manage, he pushed the lid down and slipped back into the driver's side of his car.

"I can't believe you sleep in your car."

Greg ignored him, passing the blanket over. He wasn't in the least bit surprised that Sherlock had worked it out. If anything, he was more concerned by how long it took the bastard to bring it up.

"And this is the same shock blanket, isn't it?"

Again, Greg said nothing. Since Sherlock seemed determined not to move anything but his own lips, Greg reached over and draped the orange cover over him, tucking it in around him.

"No, not like that. It'll hamper me."

"If you don't shut up, I'll stuff it down your throat."

Sherlock pouted, but sat up straight, pulling the blanket off so he could wrap it more effectively over his shoulders. How he hated good intentions — they always got in his way, and they never made sense. He snuggled back into the blanket, looking out at the street they'd been watching for the last four hours. His eyes observed the slightest tremor in the chain link fence some thirty feet away, but there was something else — something new — that bothered him.

His nose twitched as he methodically checked every gap in the alley, every shadow, every possible place where a criminal could be hiding. Nothing — it wasn't out there, then. It must have been something in the car. Greg hadn't really moved; he'd shifted his hands to his pockets, but that was obvious — his fingers were cold after touching the metal exteriour of the vehicle.

Sherlock made a mental note to buy him a new pair of gloves.

Narrowing his eyes, he sunk deeper into the warmth of the blanket, wrapping it more securely around his thin body. His nose came into contact with the itchy, coarse fabric, and there — that was it. He sniffed.

The blanket wasn't warm; he hadn't generated enough body heat for that. It was something else entirely. It was the scent of the blanket itself. It was oddly pleasant — rustic and summery, giving it the illusion of warmth, but not actually inducing an actual change in temperature. He glanced down briefly, but his eyes were almost useless at providing additional insight. His olfactory sense told him everything he needed to know.

He sniffed again.

It was the aftershave that had caught his attention — the cheap, but effective kind that a man who worked too much might buy. Obviously it was Lestrade's — the evidence was incontrovertible, and — as he noted when he brought the blanket up over his nose — it was refreshingly familiar.

Greg glanced at him. "Any warmer?" he asked gruffly.

Sherlock's reply was muffled. "…yes."


End file.
